


Season's Greetings

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt tries to reverse the curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season's Greetings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "season's greetings". I could not think of a title. :/
> 
> * * *

John hears the music playing faintly in the living room when he gets home. It's something vaguely familiar, and the fact that the volume is turned down low enough that he can't identify the song only solidifies his long-held suspicion that the kid deliberately cranks the tunes when he knows John is about to walk in the door. It's a sad state of affairs when he can now recognize the difference between Slipknot and Disturbed in five notes or less. 

The name of the song is on the tip of his tongue as he toes off his shoes and hangs his holster on the peg. But the answer slips away when he reaches the living room and his brain synapses go on overload, because it appears that the entire Christmas section of Barney's Discount Emporium has exploded in his living room. 

John opens his mouth, closes it again. He pads quietly to the kitchen, snags a cold beer from the fridge. It's one of Matt's micro-brewed, no chemicals added, tastes like weasel piss brands, but John isn't about to be picky. Right now, he might not turn down actual weasel piss if it had at least 7% alcohol content.

It's only when he's fortified himself with half the bottle – and is still grimacing at the bitter aftertaste – that he's able to make his way back to the living room. He leans against the archway, and that's when the name of the artist hits him. Burl Ives. Singing White Christmas. 

Okay.

"What the hell is this?" he asks softly.

Tinsel goes flying when Matt jerks up from where he's bent over something on the coffee table, but he's almost certain that Lucy knew he was home. He feels a little surge of pride. Can't put nothing past his girl.

"Whoa, okay, you're really early!" Matt splutters. "Connie was supposed to… I needed time to… Hey! Merry Christmas!"

"It was all Matt's idea," Lucy adds quickly.

John pushes off from the doorway and takes another swig of his beer. He tries to focus on Matt – on his wide startled eyes and nervous smile – because he's afraid that if he takes his attention away from the kid, his eyes might fry right out of their sockets. There's really a shit-ton of glitter. And a fake tree, flickering with disco lights. And possibly one of those animatronic Santa's that waves and talks when a person walks by it, so he makes a mental note to stay away from that side of the room.

"Matt—"

"Oh, you've got a beer," Matt says. "I've got rum and eggnog in the punchbo… no, you know, it's okay, beer is fine. So. Surprise!"

"Yeah," John says shortly. He's been living with the kid for a while, and he thought he mostly had Matt figured out. Issues with authority, check. Supersmart brainiac, check. Arrogance masking fear of rejection, check. But this whole thing is throwing him for a loop. He sets his beer down on the mantel – where, he sees, there are matching 'John' and 'Matthew' stockings, jeeeesus – and takes a breath. "Anybody want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"You know," Lucy says, "I think I'm just gonna take off."

"What? No!" Matt says. 

"Yeah," Lucy says firmly. She detours to peck him on the cheek, grins up at him. "See ya, Dad."

"No, but…" Matt trails her to the hallway. "I've got turkey! There's turkey cooking and… cranberry sauce! There's gonna be yams and homemade… and she's gone. I'm talking to the door."

"Matt."

"You know, it's okay," Matt says. He turns back, waves an arm back at the hallway. "She just doesn't get what I'm trying to do here, that's all. It'll still be fine. Hah, more turkey for us, right? See if she gets any of the leftover apple pie when she drops by tomorrow! I don't think so! Nice try Lucy Genn--"

"Matthew," John interrupts. He successfully resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, even though he can feel a headache coming on. He waves his own arm to take in the glitter and tinsel instead. "You like to talk. Get wordy."

"You know, it just seems like I talk a lot because you've got that whole laconic Clint Eastwood thing going on," Matt answers. "If you actually had conversations like a normal person—"

"Matthew."

"Okay," Matt says. "So. Here's the thing, John. I like Christmas. I know that makes no sense, because it's become so commercialized and I should hate all the consumerism and materialism and all the other ism's that surround this holiday, it's ridiculous. I get it, okay? But I _like_ listening to Christmas carols. I like snow and candy canes and those stupid Claymation TV specials. And you… sorta hate Christmas."

"I don't hate—"

"No," Matt interrupts, "you don't. You're scared of Christmas. I get that, too. I mean, you have had some _really_ shitty bad luck on the holidays, right? So I just thought that we could have a nice dinner and presents, spin some oldies and enjoy the day and then you'll see that nobody is going to crash a plane into the Potomac or get kidnapped or hang-glide into the backyard with a rocket launcher. It'll just be a nice, normal day."

"Matthew," John says slowly. "It's July 30th."

"Yes! Exactly!"

Yeah, he hasn't got this damn kid figured out at all. John gives in and pinches his nose – which doesn't help the headache one iota – before he flops down onto the sofa and closes his eyes. Apparently this is Matt's cue to join him, because a moment later he feels the cushion dip with Matt's weight. He cracks open one eye, squints at the kid. "Sometimes, Matt," he says, "you make my head hurt."

Matt shakes his head. "No, but see, this is like a… a test run! So when nothing crazy happens you'll see that you don't have any kind of insane Christmas curse hanging over your head or—"

"Kid," John says, "nothing crazy is going to happen because _it's not Christmas_."

He regrets snapping at the kid when Matt's shoulders slump. He flashes onto the stories Matt's told of the Farrell holidays when he was a kid, before his parents kicked him to the curb. And he flashes also to that shitty walkup in Camden and wonders how long it's been since Matt's been able to indulge himself like this. 

He steels himself before reaching over to rest his hand on Matt's knee.

"Hey, maybe you're right," he lies. Matt raises his eyes, gazes at him through his bangs. And John definitely does not resist the urge to sweep his fingers through that hair. He shifts on the sofa to face the kid, puts on his most sincere expression. "We get through today without the Empire State Building blowing up or ninjas bursting through the front door, maybe it's a sign. Maybe it means you wiped out my Christmas curse." 

Matt lifts one eyebrow. "You are so full of shit, McClane."

John sighs. He used to better at hedging the truth than this. "And if not," he continues, "then… hey. New tradition. Christmas in July for the McClane-Farrells."

Matt rolls his eyes, but he lets John wrap an arm around his shoulder and snuggle him in. When Burl Ives starts singing Holly Jolly Christmas, John makes a mental promise to go all out in December. He'll slog out with the kid to that farm Joe's always talking about, let him pick out a real tree. He'll stock the fridge with eggnog and make sure there's mistletoe hanging over every doorframe. Hell, he's even drag himself to a goddamn mall with Lucy to make sure he gets Matt the right computer doodads. 

And if ninjas do burst through the damn door or Empire State goes up in flames, he'll be ready.

He only realizes he's closed his eyes when he hears the jingle of tinkling bells. He frowns, feels Matt tense beneath his arm. 

"You didn't," John says softly. He opens his eyes to a ball of brown fluff flouncing its way through the living room, complete with big red bow around its neck and long floppy ears. He presses his lips together, closes his eyes again. "You did."

"He was supposed to be locked in the… he must have pushed the door… oh. So. Merry Christmas?"

They name the puppy Noel. And when someone tries to break in through the kitchen window on Christmas Eve, it's Noel who is the big hero, who jumps him and holds him down until John can grab his cuffs and Matt can call it in. 

And when Matt is sated and satisfied beside him on the 25th with Noel curled up napping at his feet, John thinks that Matt may have broken the curse after all. They can handle one measly bad guy.


End file.
